


but my love is older than my soul

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Caring, Episode 5.12, Episode Tag, First Kiss, Fix-It, Forgiveness, M/M, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:52:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: Stiles has around five hundred and twenty-eight things he wants to say to Scott, but all of them stick in his mouth. When he talked to his dad, they spoke about forgiveness, and at the time Stiles thought he had to forgive Scott. But now he’s seriously questioning why.





	but my love is older than my soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Theostry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theostry/gifts).



> This short story already exists in my 'Skittles Tumblr Ficlets' if it's looking awfully familiar. Theostry asked if I would post it again for bookmarking.

By the time they make it back to Scott’s house, the paralysis has mostly worn off. He still has tingles in his left foot and his right hand keeps wanting to flick out and flail, but he can walk without needing to rest on Scott. Considering blood is blooming from Scott’s chest, deep red and heartbreaking, Stiles can only think this is a good thing - even though it means they don’t have to be touching any more. Even though it means he can’t feel Scott’s solid warmth along his side.

Stiles has around five hundred and twenty-eight things he wants to say to Scott, but all of them stick in his mouth. When he talked to his dad, they spoke about forgiveness, and at the time Stiles thought he had to forgive Scott. But now he’s seriously questioning why. Because Scott thought the same as Stiles himself? Because Scott had been taken in by the same lies? It doesn’t sit right with him, in his gut, in his bones. He tries to breathe normally, but all his air comes in shallow and rapid.

“Sit down,” Stiles says.

Scott raises an eyebrow at him; questioning, not defiant. He falls back into the couch with a wince and Stiles doesn’t know what to do with all the guilt festering inside, so he does what he always does in these moments - he acts rashly. He goes to Scott’s room and gets one of his old t-shirts - ratty, too large, covered in stains Scott wouldn’t remember the origins of, bought at least four years ago he’s sure. He recovers the first aid kit from the bathroom.

When he clatters back down the stairs he sees Scott still sitting on the couch, his head tipped back, his neck a long, vulnerable column. The blood has continued to soak through his shirt, but if you only looked at his face, you’d think Scott was almost _content_. And maybe the paralysis hasn’t disappeared entirely, because Stiles finds his knees have locked up and he suddenly doesn’t know how to step forward.

He decides to go to the kitchen first. Get some water. To drink and to clean. Seems like the best strategy.

He crashes onto the couch beside Scott eventually. Scott opens his eyes and looks at him, still with that edge of happiness - like it doesn’t matter if there’s a Chimera pack, or a giant fuck-off monster roaming through town, and his pack’s in tatters, and he’s half gored to death - as long as he has Stiles near, he’s golden. It twists that guilt up inside and sends it exploding.

“Can I help you?” Stiles asks, surprising himself.

“Yeah, sure, thanks,” Scott says, leaning forward and peeling his shirt off with Stiles’ assistance. Stiles’ fingers flutter over his skin, and Stiles tries not to make them linger, tries not to trace all the scars he knows don’t show, but are embedded regardless. He sucks in another shallow, rapid breath.

The bandage is heavy with Scott’s blood as Stiles places it into the plastic bag he procured from the kitchen. Stiles glances at it, thinking about how constantly Scott must have been bleeding, how much pain he must have been in.

But he doesn’t comment on it. Can’t say a single of those words tied up behind his tongue. Instead, he dips a washcloth into the water he organized and a second after placing it against Scott’s skin, thinks about how he should have warmed it up.

Scott flinches a little as Stiles cleans him up, but he also sits back, passive. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t hiss. He lets Stiles drag the cloth up over his skin, washing away the evidence of hours of suffering. Some of the blood at his sternum has crusted over, gone nearly pitch black, and Stiles has to carefully, gently, keep working at it. It disappears, bit by bit, with each swipe, with every brush, and Stiles wishes that was true of cruel actions and crueler words. No water can erase what’s been said, what’s been done.

Stiles concentrates at the job at hand, but he can’t help looking up at Scott’s face some of the time; testing his reaction, checking he isn’t still hurting.

Somehow, Stiles doesn’t think Scott would show him if he was. Stiles thinks Scott may have been hurting a lot longer than he’d ever credit.

By the time he’s finished cleaning the wound, some of Scott’s blood stains Stiles’ fingers. He stares at it for a long time before he dips them into the water and scrubs it away.

“Should we let it air for a while?”

“I think it needs to be dried and redressed. I’ll heal better with warmth.”

“Antiseptic?” Stiles asks, looking into the kit.

Scott softly places a hand on his wrist. “No. It’ll irritate it further.”

“You know a lot about mending yourself.”

“I have to. Plus, you know, mom.”

Stiles pats at Scott’s chest with a new, sterile cloth. His own chest feels tight and his jaw aches from how he’s clenching it every time Scott jerks, infinitesimally. Scott helps him figure out how to apply the bandage, stretching back so there won’t be gaps. Stiles anchors him with a hand on his hip, smooths the tape over at the top, the sides, the base. That need to touch Scott is still strong.

It grounds him. It settles him. It makes breathing come easier, calmer.

He thinks about what Scott said about warmth and after Scott’s pulled on his ratty gray tee, strips off his checkered shirt. It’s a little grimy, and there’s probably some blood on it somewhere, but he thinks it’ll do in the situation. He wraps it around Scott’s shoulders, to the apparent amusement of Scott, who’s giving him a small, confused smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” Scott says. “Or I have. But not toward me.”

“Lies. I was like this for your first four asthma attacks.”

“Oh. Of course. That was, what, ten years ago? And for my fifth, I seem to remember you telling me to ‘cough it out, wheezy’.”

“Kids can be cruel.”

“Yeah. We can,” Scott says, nodding. He quirks another smile at Stiles, leans over so that they’re pressed against each other again. “Thanks.”

“You don’t owe me any thanks.”

“Maybe not, but you’re getting them anyway. It’s my thing. I thank people when they help me. It’s a strange concept, I know.”

“You thank people even when it’s recompense?”

“It’s only polite.”

“Even if they haven’t begun to make up for the things they’ve done in the past?”

“I don’t see why not. I’m thanking them in the present.”

Stiles closes his eyes, digs the nails of his right hand into his palm. “You ever get tired of being so good all the time?”

One of Scott’s hands settles over his. “I do. But I have you to balance me out.”

When Stiles opens his eyes again, their faces are inches apart. They’re sharing breath, radiating heat. Stiles can see every blemish on Scott’s skin, every fine hair. Scott’s expression is open and trusting. He’s waiting for one of those seemingly permanently stuck words.

It comes out of Stiles in a rush.

“I’m sorry.” He sucks in a quick breath, then another one. “I’m sorry for blaming you. I’m sorry for hitting you.”

Scott strokes his thumb over the top of Stiles’ hand. “It’s okay. I accept your apology. I accepted it when you came over earlier.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Actually, that was my forgiveness.”

Scott frowns at him. “For being late?”

“For being dead.”

“Oh.”

They’re still close, closer than they’ve been in a long time. It takes no effort at all for Stiles to close the gap and press a kiss against Scott’s lips. It’s the worst timing, but it’s the connection he needs. An affirmation. A _confirmation_ , of all those words Stiles can’t say, but holds in his heart.

It’s a dry, chaste kiss. A peck more than anything. Scott gives a small, curious hum, and then kisses Stiles back with something softer, lingering. Stiles licks at the seam of Scott’s lips and loses himself to another kiss, and another, until he can’t tell where they begin and end.

Kind of like their friendship.


End file.
